


it's five lives too late

by monado



Series: callisto [3]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: 360 No Cope, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheating, F/M, M/M, Masochism, Wounds, addressing raiden/rose through samuraiden, romanticized violence, sam coochie eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-06-29 11:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monado/pseuds/monado
Summary: When Jack burns, he smoulders.





	1. white fox

**Author's Note:**

> raiden has a wife - Freeform

The spectre has been hanging over him for quite some time now.

 

It’s nothing new -- after all, he read up on Jack’s file ages ago -- but it’s something that seems to become more and more relevant.

 

Jack has a wife and kid.

 

You wouldn't think so, by the way he acts. Mercenaries for hire aren't _un_ likely to have families, it's just that Sam hasn't personally dealt with someone who fights the way Jack does (like he's got nothing to lose)... having a family.

 

It’s kinda funny to listen in on Jack, whenever he mentions them. He’d said something about getting them a souvenir, once, many weeks ago, on sub-Maverick frequencies they vastly overestimated the security of, and Sam had to laugh. Assuming they're not estranged, he’d be willing to bet they don't give two shits about souvenirs; Jack’s been in central USA for months, and they’d probably simply prefer his presence. Of course, they could just as easily want him to stay gone. Depends on how shit of a father and husband Jack is. Sam doesn't exactly have faith in his family man skills.

 

He doesn't want to bring it up -- Jack can be so moody _,_ and they've been getting along so well recently. But then Jack will _misbehave._

 

Sure, Sam’s not innocent. He doesn't _not_ swing his hips while he walks. He doesn't not flirt with Jack sometimes. But it's all in jest, it's all a part of his personality (persona); it’s not serious, and Sam thought Jack understood that. His actions suggest something else.

 

There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for it -- they’re training and Jack topples him, knocks him to the ground and follows up, as he should. What’s not accounted for is the lingering. He’s winded, clearly (Sam knows he gives him a run for his money) but he should have caught his breath already.

 

It’s explainable by itself: Raiden’s zoning out; he’s disoriented from the blow to his head; he wants to rub his victory in. But it happens more than three times. More than four. And Sam’s no idiot -- he sees Jack’s gaze, feels it track him sometimes. Watching him as he performs innocuous tasks, snapping his gaze away lightning-fast when Sam decides to acknowledge his awareness.

 

So, like a mature adult, Sam starts a Conversation.

 

“So, what’s married life like?”

 

Jack looks like he's swallowed a mosquito. “What?”

 

That's his answer for so many things. “Married life, Jack.” He plays coy. “Don't tell me the intel files were wrong?”

 

“None of your goddamn business,” he barks. And he’s off.

 

That's the end of conversation number one.

 

\--

 

Sam leaves it. Maybe his point was conveyed: that he doesn't know what the fuck to do about Jack’s obvious attraction when there is a _wife_ in the mix. (Jack would hardly be the first married man to take an interest in him; this is the first time Sam’s got a stake in keeping their relationship going.) He’ll avoid bringing it up if he can, since Jack’s probably got some deep baggage attached to it like he does with everything personal, and Sam isn't a sadist. In most situations, anyway.

 

They're clearing a filthy old warehouse -- nonlethally, at the moment, just hogtying a bunch of petrified R&D workers -- when Raiden ducks out into the hallway, holding up a finger at Sam, who shrugs and keeps on working through the whimpers and the potent smell of fear.

 

That's about all they have left to do in that room, so Sam finishes up, dusts off his hands, and wanders towards the door. He decides he’s feeling cheeky enough to turn the handle and saunters into the corridor, empty and stinking of rust and piss, where Jack speaks in hushed tones, two fingers on his ear? headphone? box?

 

“No, it’s-” Pause. “I'm just busy, I can't-” Longer pause. Sam leans against the wall.

 

“Rose, I- I can’t, alright?” Testy Jack. Sam raises his eyebrows at him, just in case he turns around. “I- I gotta go.”

 

Jack’s hand drops and he looks utterly exhausted. He then spins around and does an absolutely lovely impression of a wild dog at him.

 

“And just what the hell do you think you're doing?”

 

Sam shrugs. “It’s a free country.”

 

He honest-to-god growls. “What part of _this,_ ” he holds up a finger, “did you not understand?”

 

“Oh, I understood you perfectly. I just didn't care.” Jack might burst a blood vessel, if he has any. “Thought you might be lonely.”

 

He pushes him aside. Ignoring his _hey!,_ Jack strides into the room they were in. Sam rolls his eyes, counts one Mississippi two Mississippi until Raiden comes back out.

 

“Did I do good?” Sam tilts his head, fluttering coquettishly.

 

“Keep your nose out of my business.”

 

“J _a-a_ ck, I was worried! I had to check if you'd received an important message from Katie!” He likes to cycle between Katie, Cathy, and Carly, for that one. Raiden’s eye twitches. “This is a life-or-death operation, you know.”

 

“Whatever.” And he's off towards their next destination. Sam’s tempted to push it, but the operation is time-sensitive, and he's not irresponsible _all_ the time.

 

The security is useless. The ones they don't rush are smart enough to get the hell out, mostly. They sweep the floor, send the files to Jack’s pals, and leave with only a few more tally marks on their swords.

 

\--

 

It becomes a problem not too much later.

 

When Jack burns, he smoulders. It’s like a toggle has been broken, a switch knocked into overdrive, and there's nothing Sam can do other than ride it out. Not that it's a bad thing.

 

It tends to go something like this:

 

Jack, coiled tight, eyes snapping. Sam taunts him. Jack throws the first punch. Sam catches it, Jack gets aggressive, and they beat each other to a bloody pulp gleefully. It's the purest, most distilled Jack.

 

Today, they're tumbling on the floor. Jack’s playing dirty, as he is wont to do, and Sam’s kneecaps smart with every breath, but that's okay because he keeps jabbing the same spot on Raiden’s abdomen and he knows it must hurt like a bitch. Well, he has no concept of how much Raiden can really _hurt_ , considering he's ninety percent wires and muscle fiber, but he told him once that he turns off his pain inhibitors for spars, whatever that means exactly. (Sam's not going to say it isn't ridiculously hot to know.)

 

(He's also not going to pretend their tussles aren't ridiculously hot in general, but then again maybe that's what landed them in this position in the first place. Smarten up, Rodrigues.)

 

He can't be fouled for copping a feel once or twice -- after all, it throws Jack right off guard, and Sam wants him on his toes. Really, Sam knows that Jack should be used to the move by now, but his better judgement takes a backseat to the part of his brain saying _nice, do it again_. He's punished for this by Jack tackling him to the fucking floor with all the grace of a high school footballer and all the weight of a bulldozer.

 

“Well, okay,” Sam manages, throat squeezing and stuttering under Jack’s forearm. He doesn't usually go down so quickly. He tries to whip around, but Jack slams his legs on either side of him and holds him in place, so Sam uses the moment to grab a fistful of Jack's hair and yanks.

 

Jack _fucking_ moans. It's not over the top, or anything, just a little noise in the back of his throat, but it's so ridiculous that Sam has to stifle a laugh (he tells himself this but the adrenaline making itself at home in his blood kicks up an instant fuss). Jack immediately jumps to his feet like a particularly shiny cat and flees.

 

What should he do now? Does he pretend the elephant in the room is completely non-threatening? Does he drive a wedge between them until a comfortable amount of space falls in? Does he -- god forbid -- make them talk about it?

 

He’s an adult. They’re all adults here. So Sam corners Jack, throws him against a wall, and splits his lip with the force of his teeth. He gets to lick the blood off before Jack shoves him away with the power of a hundred thousand nanomachines.

 

“Sam, what the _fuck,_ ” Jack spits, wiping his upper lip. Sam crowds him against the wall again, holding Jack’s jaw with one hand while the other braces itself on his abdomen. Jack knees him, rakes his claws across his back. Sam’s out of his armor; it stings like a bitch; draws blood through his shirt. Jack freezes when Sam’s breath hitches.

 

Metal teeth are strange to kiss, but not _bad._ He slips his tongue over them, behind them. Jack’s tongue is artificial. It’s smooth, like silicone and leather, and Sam can’t help his noise when it slides above his own.

 

Jack’s a biter, and his tongue and lips are bruising. He has no patience or finesse, and Sam doesn’t want to simply wait out the storm, but it _is_ the whole point of this exercise.

 

Though, he takes a kind of glee in kissing him like this, in his battlewear, no fake synthetic skin, only the raw parts of Jack that makes him tick. He’s warm, whirring, but only between his plates -- his vents stutter with steam -- it’s unlike anything Sam’s experienced. He fumbles blindly, presses a finger between his chestplates (nothing), drags it down (nothing), in a moment of genius, presses the tips of his fingers underneath the edge of a chestpiece (a full-body shudder). Jack is _adorable_.

 

It’s when he starts ripping Sam’s shirt that Sam realizes he’s not, in fact, going to scare Jack off. Sharp-tipped metal grazes along the scores in his back, so lightly Sam shivers. Shocks drag through him along with four faint nails -- he has to pull the breaks.

 

“P-pretty boy,” and damn that stutter was inelegant, but Jack stops in his tracks anyway. “Is this really… in line with what you want?”

 

His stare is pointed. Jack, ever observant, just narrows his eyes. “I think I know what I want.” The tenor of his voice registers somewhere on Sam’s _dangerous_ radar. It shoots a thrill up his spine.

 

But willful ignorance is truly tiring. “Jack--” and thoughts scatter to the wind when said man palms his god damn groin and he maybe, possibly yelps. It’s enough of an action to send him sidestepping away. Jack frowns at him, eye gleaming.

 

“What’s the problem?Changed your mind?” And, oh, if the rumble to his voice hadn't gotten to him before, it most definitely would now.

 

Sam does an absolutely Herculean effort to ignore it. “Jack.” He cocks his hip, leans on the wall next to him. “Forgive me for expressing awareness about your life, but _god_ I wish you didn't have a wife.”

 

His gaze is steady. “And so what if I do?”

 

Sam scrubs his hand over his face (his lips throb; bad move) and sighs. “I don't want to be in the middle of it when your lady friend divorces you.” Partial truth.

 

“I wouldn't have thought you the type to care.”

 

Ouch. “Were that I was a weaker man, Jack.” He wags his finger. “The kid’s stopping me, too.”

 

That gets a reaction. A flinch -- so he  _is_ estranged, and guilty to boot. “That’s--”

 

“None of my business, yes yes.” Jack glares at him. “And really, who am I to not put out because of a kid? I don’t know.” He shrugs.

 

Jack rolls his neck, agitated. “And I suppose you have some _wisdom_ for me.”

 

“Nope.” He honestly seems like he wasn't expecting that answer. “I just don't want to be caught up in a grand family scandal and have you even angrier than usual.”

 

Jack doesn't even rise to the bait. He's oddly subdued. Perhaps it's this that has Sam feeling bold enough to reveal something just a bit more personal. “We have a good working relationship here, Jack. Wouldn't wanna mess it up.”

 

He turns, walks slowly enough that there's ample time to say something, but Jack doesn't. He makes a beeline straight to the shower.

 

\--

 

After that, things are less tense, somehow.

 

Maybe it's because neither of them have to pretend like they're not attracted to each other anymore. Sam half expected Jack to go all ice queen on him, but instead he stares with a heavy eye when he catches Sam with his eyes below the belt. If Sam didn't know any better, he might think Jack is trying to wear him down.

 

 _To hell with it_ crosses his mind more than a few times, but there's always something that holds him back. As much as he hates to admit it, he _cares_ about Jack. He doesn't want to forfeit all the progress he's made taking down his shields, and that's exactly what family drama would do. Besides, he just doesn't want to let Jack win. It's juvenile, but he has a hunch Jack’s treating it like a competition too, so it's okay.

 

He gets a call from Raiden’s buddy about a week later.

 

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” He gives an overly condescending half-bow to the screen. Mutes the cable TV in front of him with relish.

 

Courtney huffs. “Enough with the pleasantries, Rodrigues. You know where I stand.” Namely: she distrusts him, dislikes him, and probably hopes Raiden will finish the job and finally stab him one of these days.

 

“Hey now! Far be it for me to act with courtesy in the good year of 2018.”

 

She barely reacts. “What did you do?”

 

Tetchy. “What do you mean, darling?”

 

That gets under her skin. “Don't call me that,” she says, visibly bristling. Sam has the good graces to not escalate things. “Raiden.”

 

He smiles loftily. “We do work together, yes.”

 

“What did you do? He’s…” She fiddles with her glasses. “Weird.”

 

Oh? So he's not turning off his heavier disposition once he’s done flirting? “How so?” he asks anyway.

 

“Quieter… I don't know.”

 

He can't resist. He hums. “Are you upset, perchance, that he spends more time with me these days?”

 

She snorts. “Right. But really, Sam. Did something happen?”

 

The usage of his first name throws him off a bit -- he doesn't think he's ever heard her call him that, in their limited conversations. He blinks. “Well, we almost had sex.”

 

“Wh--” It’s delightful, the way she sputters. “No. No you didn't.”

 

“Mm, I’d think I would know. Did you know his fingertips are very soft? Not to mention his tongue-”

 

“I did not call to subject myself to this.” She hangs up.

 

Sam sits on his hands for a bit until Jack comes into the room.

 

“Any reason why Courtney just called me to cuss me out?” His intonation is as flat as his gaze.

 

Sam puts a finger on his chin. “Hmm, can't fathom why.” He turns his hand into a finger gun and points at Jack. “Are you seriously _worrying your friends_ because you wanna get laid so bad?”

 

“No.” Jack’s face tenses. “Maybe?” He looks to the side for a minute, ponderously, before refocusing. He stares at him for a few suspended moments. “You're an asshole.”

 

That wrenches a laugh out of him. It's not said with any real venom, it's clearly a filler statement for whatever’s really on his mind. “For what? Telling a close friend of yours something you don't seem to worry about getting to the wrong ears?”

 

Anger washes over the mask for a moment before it’s reigned in and away. “We need to talk.”

 

“Oh, thank god.”

 

He sits down next to him. The couch, just like in all of their little cabin hideaways, begins its partial death under his weight. They sit in silence for a bit, Sam trying to respect Jack’s prolonged thought process. He turns towards the window and watches a bird flit past it.

 

“Rose is…” He swallows audibly. “The love of my life. She kept me going through-- things. I’d rather not talk about.”

 

He's not going to win an award for emotional self-actualization anytime soon, but it's the most Jack’s ever talked about his past. He’s refusing eye contact, so Sam hums in affirmation.

 

“But I-- She-” He cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, and puts his head in his declawed hands. There's silence for an amount of time. “You're a soldier.” He turns to look, and Sam nods slowly. “How do you go back, to all of it?”

 

He takes a deep breath, in and out. “Honestly? I never have.” Jack straightens up in acknowledgement. “Civilian life is… not for me.”

 

Jack nods quickly. “Right. It’s just-- it doesn't _work_.” The last word comes out as an almost-growl, full of self-reproach. “I can spend about a week with them before I start to go crazy. It's… bad. So I took up a job with Maverick, and now contract working, so I can provide for my family and still be _away_ from them.” He’s holding fistfuls of hair in his hands. “It’s bad _."_

 

All Sam can do is nod. He doesn't get it, _can't_ really get it (see: ninety percent of Jack’s body, see: child soldier past) but there's a bone-deep sympathy in his body. The battlefield-- the battlefield is where he thrives. He’s trained his whole life to accommodate it, and succeeded so painfully hard that the situation flipped. He can pretend as much as he wants, but he’ll never be comfortable doing anything other than what he does now, and he knows it.

 

Jack continues. “Rose is… too patient. But lately she's… been giving up, on me. I can feel it.” Sam stops the pity from welling up, but it's hard when Jack makes such a sorry sight. “She should. I don't know where she gets the energy. But all it's done is-- it's showed me I don't know what the _fuck_ I’m doing.” His fist comes down on the arm of the couch, and Sam silently adds the expenses to their bill. “I've never _not_ had help. Even when I was… I've never had to...” He’s slumped very far. “I don't know what to do.”

 

Sam leans back, rolls his head back. “Perhaps you don’t have to _do_ anything.”

 

Jack’s attention snaps to him. Clearly this is the first time anyone’s said something like this to him.

 

“Just… Compromise.” He shrugs, careful to make it come off as pensive and not nonchalant. “Maybe you won’t be husband of the year, but it doesn’t have to be all or nothing.”

 

“And how’s that,” Jack huffs. “How can I even be present in their lives when I can’t trust myself?” The tension is climbing in him, clear in the set of his shoulders. “I don’t even _know_ myself, so how can Rose?” He scoffs. “Not to even mention my own fucking _son_.”

 

There’s a full pause between them. “It sounds to me like you want yourself to be someone you’re not.” He rolls his gaze over to meet Jack’s, finds it clear, open. Vulnerable. “You know you can’t be domestic. So don’t.” It’s simple, really.

 

Too simple for Jack. “But why _not_ ,” he hisses, fingers digging into fabric. He’s revving himself up, so Sam lays a hand on his shoulder, carefully.

 

He doesn’t say anything. Neither of them do. Sam watches him.

 

He seems to snap out of the reverie, slips Sam’s hand off. “What I-- what I mean to say is… You’re different.”

 

“Oh?” Sam indulges.

 

Jack opens his mouth, then closes it. He gives an appraising look before leaning in, slowly, singular eye drifting half-closed.

 

He pulls Sam’s bottom lip into his mouth, prods at it with his tongue, bites lightly. It’s a gentle motion, almost tender, but it hurts, agitating the old bruises in a way that has Sam struggling to stay idle. He’s about to start kissing back when Jack pulls away.

 

They’re wordless for a few moments. “That’s why.”

 

He gets it, really. Jack’s wife is precious to him. She doesn’t want to hurt him, and neither does he -- maybe she’s too vanilla, maybe she’s not strong enough to withstand four hundred pounds of hard metal at full power. Either way, Sam’s offering something he craves, maybe even needs; something closer to the core of Jack than anything else.

 

But he can’t. All he’s done is reinforce how important his family is to him, and how much of his struggles revolve around them; Sam doesn’t want to, _can’t_ make himself come between them. He sighs, forgets his words for a moment when the air ghosting across Jack makes his eyelid fall even more. “Jack,” and he ignores the parting of his lips, “I can’t.”

 

“I’ll ask Rose.” He’s so, so intent on him that Sam almost misses the meaning of the words. He likes to think he’s not easily surprised, but this does get him.

 

“You... genuinely think she wouldn’t mind? That she wouldn’t tear your hair out for even asking?”

 

“I don’t know.” He blinks. His eyelashes are absurdly long. “She knows that I love her. That I’ll always love her.”

 

“And? You don’t think she’ll worry you’ll fall for me?”

 

Jack huffs. “I won’t.”

 

And well, it’s not like Sam doesn’t have an extensive track record of shit decisions. What’s one more in a losing battle?

 


	2. white rabbit

Where Jack was apathetic before, it's clear that he's keyed up now. He's putting it off, probably lingering on how the hell to say “hey wifey, it's been a while, mind if I sleep around” in any reasonable way.

 

Sam gets it, he really does. As much as he's tempted to put pressure on the situation so Jack will hurry up, he’s quite sure his normal rules don't apply here. That doesn't stop him from holding his breath whenever his new paramour rounds the corner.

 

The lines of Jack’s body are mechanized, yes, but his movements are nothing like those of the barebones, skeletal approach to prosthetics so recently entertained. No, Jack is fluid -- he is power and heart and synthetic grace all rounded up into something that moves like a tiger, and weighs the same too. He is sleek, pistons jet black, reflecting the hollow orange glow of his chest that never fails to draw Sam’s attention to the barest glimpse of faux muscle underneath the plates.

 

It's around here that he realizes how really, truly fucked he is.

 

It's in the way Jack’s mouth twists when Sam catches him in a bad mood. It's in the way he cracks his joints with all the force of someone who knows they can't truly harm themselves doing it. It's in the _click click clicking_ on the cracked tile on days he doesn't bother changing out of his combat outfit even though he has the means to muffle the sound entirely. These are all things Sam should hate, _did_ hate at one point, and he can't pinpoint when it stopped.

 

He does what he does best and shoves it into the back of the closet where it belongs. It won't be lonely, at least; plenty of skeleton friends in there for it.

 

Traveling halfway across the country chasing a lead, they finally, _finally_ locate the higher-ups of the human trafficking ring they've been contracted to destroy. Jack tells him to stop humming jaunty 80s tunes in victory, so he sings _Maneater_ at him.

 

They ride towards the outskirts of town, Jack in the driver’s seat. Sam asks him about whether he’s capable of acting as his own aux cord, which leads into the discovery that Jack has a whole music collection at his beck and call. Despite being a walking MP3 player, he refuses to divulge any information on the kind of music he likes, which means Sam is obligated to heckle him about it for the rest of the ride.

 

The light vibe is swallowed by anticipation as they step out of the car. Sam touts Murasama over his shoulder, comfortable under its familiar heft. Raiden fastens his sword to his back. He glances towards the back seat quickly.

 

Sam can read that. “Ahh, I miss Blade Wolf,” he says, slotting his sword into place at his hip. He meanders around the front of the car. “Wonder what he’s up to these days.”

 

“Probably still running all sorts of errands for Sunny. He seemed to like it.” Raiden shrugs.

 

“It would be nice to work with him sometime. Wish it was easier.” Referring, of course, to their -- but especially Jack’s -- status as enemies of the state. Jack’s Maverick buddies (and Sunny behind the scenes, bless her heart) had helped minimize the damage as much as possible, but they still require a lot of backup plans when it comes to travelling. Sam’s not so conspicuous, but it's not like the local authorities wouldn't recognize Jack in a heartbeat.

 

Said man hums, and starts forward down the dirt path. Sam clicks his waypoint marker on and follows.

 

They fall into a focused silence once they enter a forest. Sam takes his cues from Jack’s body language, though of course sparing no effort surveying the area on his own. They drop into a crouch soon enough, stopping once a dilapidated bluish warehouse comes into view.

 

“Do these people only have warehouses?”

 

Raiden huffs, quietly. “Property values in this economy,” he says, to which Sam tilts his head in concession, eyebrows lifted.

 

Sam sits back on his haunches. A few men patrol the perimeter casually; PMCs. Their guards are relatively low, and there’s boredom in their step. The building casts a sizeable shadow on the side. “Looks like this might benefit from some stealth.” He glances at Raiden, who keeps his gaze fixed on the men.

 

He nods. “I'll take the security cameras first. We shouldn't risk alerting anyone inside just yet.” He leans over, peering through some leaves for a different angle, and then pivots his eyes to Sam. “Can you muffle your steps effectively?”

 

“ _Psh_. Who do you take me for?”

 

“Just seems like it might be difficult. For you.” A smile crinkles at the edge of his eye.

 

Despite himself, he grins. “Classy, Jack.”

 

That's how he finds himself on top of several shaded crates and peeking over the edge of the rooftop. The two snipers are there, meandering back and forth. Stealth isn't one of Sam’s specialties, and he knows he could compromise the mission by alerting the targets to their presence, so he spends a moment planning out several courses of action.

 

In the end, he settles on slitting the closest one’s throat, hand over his mouth, and holding the other in a choke with his blade pressed against his throat.

 

“Say anything, and I _cut_.” His job lets him have these one-liners, and for that, he is grateful.

 

The man quivers in his grip. He nods as vigorously as he has space to. Sam moves his sword around languidly, never straying too far.

 

“I would like to know the whereabouts of your bosses.” A pause. “You can speak.”

 

The man’s hacked XIFF indicated that he quite starkly outranks the rest of the men. It's why Sam targeted him; probably the on-duty commander. “Th- They're in a meeting!” Not new knowledge. He stutters out the coordinates, which are automatically detected by Sam’s HUD system and stored.

 

“Awfully quick to sell out your own, hmm?”

 

The man slumps to the ground in a pool of his own blood. Sam makes sure the bodies are far enough in to not be visible from ground level, and hops down on the crates.

 

Stalking around the corner shows that the guards are no more. Raiden’s at the other end of the building, dragging a body into the trees.

 

They meet up at the entrance. No words are exchanged, out of caution. Sam hits a few buttons to transfer the coordinates, and they open the door slowly.

 

They make a beeline for the destination, neutralizing enemies as they patrol. They split up once or twice, only using hand signals to indicate what they're doing, if they need to at all. It's a nice feeling, being so in sync.

 

Everything goes very well until Sam hears a distinct yelp and the sound of walls coming down.

 

Rushing to the next room, he sees Raiden getting slammed around by one of those ugly bruiser UGs, a Mastiff. He rushes in, uses the trigger on his sheath to cleave through one of its arms. It staggers back, enraged.

 

“I thought you were the expert!” Sam yells, figuring the damage is done.

 

“I-- I’m out of practice! And this thing was just _here_!”

 

It roars.

 

Sam braces himself as Raiden darts to the side. The thing still has one very functional arm, and he knows from experience that it hits with the force of several sledgehammers. It comes down, a hair away from where Sam stood a moment before. The opportunity is easy, golden; he cleaves the remaining arm in two. It stumbles, shudders as Raiden slashes at its back relentlessly.

 

It’s torn into ribbons, but whole. It rights itself, flies into the air, angles for a dropkick; Sam braces himself; it connects with his sword with enough force to break the floor under Sam’s feet. His joints ache from the blow. It doesn’t stop him from cutting clean through the thing’s legs when it pushes off, and then it’s bisected, and Raiden’s ripping out its power supply and shattering it in his palm. His mouth is open, feral.

 

He can only enjoy the sight for a few moments before they're accosted by more goons. They're clearly skilled, but it's ultimately nothing to write home about -- Sam on direct engagement and diversion duty while Raiden darts around, lethal and glinting, cleaning up the edges. Beautiful. The usual.

 

Once they're done, there's no reason to sneak around. They sprint to the objective, finding a barricade of rough-n-tumble looking PMCs before what looks to be the slimeballs they're hunting. They're in some kind of training area, open and quite suitable for combat.

 

“Look, Raiden, they've been expecting us,” he says, and he knows the look he sees in his single eye is reflected in his own two.

 

Mercifully, they don't try to monologue or negotiate before siccing their soldiers on them. Raiden surges forward and Sam doesn’t linger for a moment. They have a speed advantage, but don't have the element of surprise, so he breaks out a good old feint before thrusting his blade back into the first man’s chest. The rivulets of blood feed his sword’s gleam and Sam smiles.

 

Barely audible over the din of combat is Raiden. “Sam! They're escorting them out!”

 

There's a sniper in the back, but Raiden is a blur of electricity and Sam disregards them. Three soldiers stand before him. “Go get them! I'll handle this!” An HF blade comes down against his own, shrieking sickeningly. He disengages to kick at the groin of another attacker before bringing his blade back around to cut through metal and flesh. The acrid smell of burning circuits batters at his nose. A blade swings towards his midsection and he dances away, finishes off the first man in the process with a deep sweeping cut. He falls to the ground, reduced to naught more than meat and wires.

 

He steps over the body, rushing the nearest man. Their swords give off sparks as they trade blows. Perhaps another commander, this one; he's able to parry some of Sam’s heavier swings, but quickly smartens up and begins dodging them instead. The adrenaline makes his blood sing hot as he starts to outmaneuver the man, swings coming closer and closer and feeding cloying desperation into his step.

 

The third man is conspicuously absent. Ducking around, he slices the backs of the commander’s knees, then pinpoints him a few feet away. He's pointing a gun at him -- Sam bolts over, deflecting bullets -- kicks the gun, pushes his sword through his stomach. He rips it out, rights himself, and cleaves the body in half just to see the blue spinal cord.

 

The other guy is staggering, trying to regain his balance, his legs reddening all the way down the back. He's probably only still standing because of the adrenaline; Sam thinks about it for a moment, then shoots him in the head with the ownerless gun. It’s not silenced. Sam rubs his ears insistently, frowning.

 

He turns to follow the trail of blood and bodies, out into the hallway and- oh. Just to the middle of the hallway.

 

Raiden’s hacking the last boss to pieces. It's a raw, brutal execution. Blood flies towards the walls with every slash. He cuts until the body stops convulsing entirely.

 

Satisfaction pools in Sam’s gut at the figure Raiden casts when he stands over his enemy, blade dripping. He is always at his most beautiful standing victorious.

 

He stalks leisurely towards Sam, who smiles lazily. “Nice work.” He’s still holding the gun, so he twirls it with distaste. “These things are so… inelegant,” he says, and puts it on the ground where it belongs.

 

Raiden hums, presses a finger to Sam’s arm. “Certainly effective enough to put a bullet in you, though.”

 

Sam blinks. All at once he’s aware of a tension in his shoulder, the kind that bruises and aches. He hisses, puts a hand to it. “Damn.” It's an unlucky shot between plates of armour. At least it hurts a hell of a lot less with the nanos.

 

He laughs. The sound is deep, heady with a vibrato that warms Sam’s chest. “If it makes you feel any better, I got a cut.” His touch trails off of Sam, relocates itself near his own collarbone. There _is_ a cut -- nonthreatening, but long, and surprising to see. Raiden doesn't often allow blows so close to his head, and these men were bit players.

 

Sam is about to make a quip when Raiden’s fingers flex. The tips of his claws dance around the wound. He pulls at the edge, runs his nail through the length of it. He brings his hand up to lick at the finger, velvet black tongue caressing the metal. Sam hates his breath for stuttering.

 

“I did it myself,” he says, tone low and quiet. “A fight’s not a fight if there's no _pain_.” He puts on an agonized lilt. “These people were nothing. Couldn't touch me.” He seizes Sam’s wrist, gentle but firm. Brings it to his abdomen. Sam's fingers come away wet and warm. “So I did it myself.”

 

“Jesus,” is all he can say. “How much did you _wound_ yourself?”

 

He hums, voice sing-song. “Wanna find out?”

 

In Sam’s defence, he's not the one who drags them to the side room.

 

It's dark, but not that dark. Blood is trickling down his shoulder. Raiden is warm against him. Only the vaguest sensation of obligation jogs his memory about why, exactly, they haven't done this before. “R-- Jack, did you--” he’s mouthing at his neck aggressively “-- _ask_?”

 

Jack smiles lazily, pointedly, all teeth, before biting _hard_. Sam allows himself to groan.

 

His curiosity over how it went is out the window, along with cognizant thoughts like “we’re going to fuck very near many dead bodies” and “does one use protection with cyborgs?” It's hard to think when he can see his own blood at the corner of Jack's lips.

 

His neck and shoulder guards lay discarded on the floor with relish. Raiden’s working his fourth bite into Sam’s neck, running his nails up and down the length of it; he shudders, makes _noises_ when stripes of red-hot streak out from his new bruises. He's using his teeth (Sam wouldn't expect anything less), and his hands -- they drag leisurely, almost ticklishly, a spot of teasing among the intensity. Ugly red welts are followed up by gentle claws, trailing in circles. His neck is wet. Sam shivers for a few of these reasons.

 

He full-body twitches when those claws curl into the base of his neck. It's a bit too much -- Sam sits up, pushes his hands down Jack’s front, grabs his chin, hard, and pulls him in. Sam tastes blood, smells it, feels the wet of Raiden’s spit against his chin. The kiss is frantic slipping, both of them trying to come out on top, and Sam thinks it's distinctly unfair that Jack has two lips to bite where he can only target one.

 

The burgeoning ache in his shoulder is drowned by late-activating nanomachines and adrenaline. Kissing is what hurts, now, and he hopes it hurts for Jack too. He grips Raiden’s sides, rubs his hands along the plates of his back. Bites down on Raiden’s tongue, slick but rougher than an organic’s, and he laughs breathily as Sam keeps his teeth clamped while he pulls it back.

 

Jack stares, heaving. Sam mirrors him. He's sure he looks disheveled; he tilts his head, grins, brings a hand up to paw at his neck, sighs when it sends angry sparks through him. Jack’s hands fly back up to hold his neck, and he grins.

 

“Now now Jack,” he croons, leaning down. He noses Raiden’s collarbone, follows its line all the way to dried blood, breathes in the heavy scent of rust and electricity.

 

Raiden's body tenses when he tongues the corner of the cut. He drags his lips across the length of the incision -- the bleeding has stopped, but it hardly matters. Sam can taste the salt, the abnormal hint of earth, and gathers up as much as possible before sealing his mouth to Jack’s in payback. He groans. It goes straight between Sam’s legs.

 

He presses a thumb to the injury and pulls it across. Jack gasps into his mouth; Sam takes the space abandoned with relish, sliding his tongue along further. He dances his fingers on the cut, putting pressure down only now and again. His hips stutter loosely. Jack tastes unique, full and heady, and the noises loosed into Sam as he periodically travels the length of his body are nothing short of intoxicating.

 

It's when he begins to push fingers underneath his chestplate that he gets stopped. Raiden's hands creak on his wrists. “Not good?” he asks.

 

He doesn't get a straight answer. He _does_ get a lapful of Jack, which is a fair trade. He bruises him up for a bit, with both teeth and hands (Raiden is _strong_ , and Sam always knew that but it's different like this) before lifting a bit off of him.

 

Sam’s back is starting to ache from the hard surfaces, but he doesn't care. He reaches to pull Jack back, but he's faster. All Jack has to do is look at him to make understanding dawn on him.

 

“ _Jack_ ” is all he can say when Raiden places his hand on his codpiece. The release mechanism refuses to cooperate with his claws, and Sam laughs, and then Raiden straight up breaks it.

 

“Hey! I have to replace that, you know.”

 

Raiden ignores him. He drags his palm down, over the vee of his hips, into the freed real estate. It's not a light touch -- Jack grinds his palm into his clit and Sam’s head smacks back against the wall in response. The combat high, the way he can feel his pulse in every bruise, the realization that _Jack’s doing this;_ they all combine to send heat out to every nerve.

 

Jack hums, expression pleasant as he drags the heel of his palm up and down the wet stain on his jumpsuit. His hips twitch up immediately, and Jack leers down at him.

 

Sam grins back. “Don't get overconfident, pretty boy,” he manages. Raiden ghosts his fingers along the outline of Sam’s slit and drags one from bottom to top, then flicks pointedly, making him jolt. He clearly enjoys watching Sam twitch at his whim, judging by his low grin -- fine by him, because it burns and sparks in ways that has him spreading his legs expectantly.

 

Since Jack is a caveman, he digs his claws into Sam’s combat coverings and tears them into parallel shreds, ripping them across and open once they're long enough. Sam just laughs. The cool air of the warehouse hits him just in time for him to be able to register the notable temperature difference between Jack’s hand and the room. It’s warm hard velvet; he drags his thumb up (it's clawed, careful Jack) and pushes circles just over his clit. Sam grabs a handful of white hair and drags him back up, craving the feel of soft and lethal Jack even as he moans into his mouth, even as he kneads at him.

 

Spit shines on Jack’s lower jaw as he breaks away, stops touching. Sam makes a noise of protest, but it morphs into a hum as the cyborg settles between his legs. He cants his hips upwards, lifting his eyebrows in challenge. Raiden is disheveled but the flames of competition light at the sides of his eyes and he ducks.

 

He looks perfect like this, sucking short tugs into his folds, licking a stripe up with the flat of his tongue. His nose is shiny and wet, cheeks red with exertion, mouth wide open and tongue moving with purpose.

 

Each flick and dip is _good_ , really good. He builds him up, and fast, never settling on an angle long enough to get used to it, then slows down to a crawl that has Sam desperate. Jack does it irreverently, with a loose confidence that suits him _really_ well. He winds his hand into Jack’s hair, scratches gently before pulling hard towards himself, and the resulting rumble of his throat goes straight through him, into his toes.

 

He hums. “Know your way around a pussy, eh Jack?” It’s an effort to goad him into eye contact. Raiden’s eyes are dark, blown out, and irritated. He's covered in slick.

 

“Stop talking,” he says, before flicking his tongue mercilessly against him.

 

Any snarky retort goes out the window in favour of “ _ah, ah, ah_ ,” spilling unbidden from Sam’s swollen lips. Raiden’s jaw, his lips, sometimes his nose; they brush against him when he moves his head, and Sam watches it with rapt attention. With little warning, he digs his claws into Sam’s thighs, hard, and sucks on his clit with a terrifying threat of teeth.

 

Sam bucks, his thighs tremble, he can't get enough air. “Jack,” he breathes.

 

He's not sure if it's a reward or a punishment, the hard and abrupt suction that follows, but it's one in the same to Sam anyway. The pressure borders on too much, edging the line of pain, but Jack keeps rolling the nub around between his tongue and teeth and he looks so good.

 

He stops with a quick lick, leaving Sam to stutter with his hips in the air, bereft of anything but aftershocks. “ _Jack_ \--”

 

“One sec.” He pops his claws off in a terrifying way. A thrill shoots through Sam, visceral and hungry.

 

“Mm,” he hums, holding his knees out invitingly, “I wasn't counting on that, but please, do continue.” It's said mockingly enough that it passes as a jab, but he can feel every beat of his heart in his pussy and he can't help himself from reaching down to trace hard circles.

 

He half expects Jack to slap his hand away, but he pauses, paying rapt attention. “Hmm.”

 

Sam makes a questioning noise. “What? You a voyeur? I can do that.”

 

“No.” His face is set, neutral save for the dilation of his eyes. “You should stretch yourself out a bit.” He lifts his hand, wiggles his fingers. They're sleek but sort of knobby; they look distinctly wrong without claws. “Probably not a great idea.”

 

It's incredibly hot. “Yes it is,” he says, immediately. He reaches, spreads himself open. He smirks. “Come on, Jack. Are you seriously worried about _injuring_ me?”

 

Raiden’s gaze darkens. “Well, okay,” he adds, unnecessarily, before reaching out and dragging a metal digit around the edges of Sam. He presses lightly at his entrance, and Sam’s chest rumbles in anticipation.

 

It seems to affect Jack, since he pushes a bit harder. His finger slides in, and Sam tilts his hips. “Mm, come on,” he murmurs, resting his hands on his thighs. He’s gentler than Sam would've expected. After a few slides in and out, Sam is leering at him.

 

Jack thumbs his clit and thrusts in and up on the same beat. His body twitches, but it's nothing. “Come on, I'm not delicate.”

 

He takes this just far enough to press in two more fingers at once. Sam laughs, murmuring _there’s the spirit_ as Jack pushes against him. The abrupt intrusion stings, and the fullness of it has Sam satisfied in his bones.

 

Raiden starts rocking his fingers, circling at his clit. The metal is hard, unrelenting inside him, and Sam laughs before it turns into a moan. Jack thrusts quickly, warmth spiking outwards in angry waves that overlap and overwhelm, then slows right down, moving shallowly and ghosting over his clit. He lets him writhe, shocks of loss driving his hips to stutter, but before he can complain verbally, he drives in again, aggressive and hard. Claws rake across and through torn bodysuit, leaving red behind.

 

It's when Jack leans down to suck at his clit when it hits him that this is really happening. They're here, in a warehouse they just finished clearing, and Jack has three fingers in him and his mouth on his clit. Electrolytes dot his arms, as does blood. The sight of him hunched over, latched onto him, the feeling of metal fingers, the knowledge that Jack’s face is smeared with blood and slick because of him is enough to-- to-

 

He comes loud, pushing into Jack as his vision whites out, body wracked with tremors. He laps at him throughout, sending shocks and shocks chasing the high, strangling it and restarting it, adding to it until Sam slumps boneless, and even then. He brings him to a long, slow finish, rubbing through the aftershocks with a gentle insistence.

 

Jack looks wrecked when he sits up. It takes all of Sam’s energy to watch, blissed out and shuddering slightly; his hair is stuck to his face in the front, his lip is purpled and split down the side, and his mandible gleams with drying slick. He looks distinctly satisfied, and yet almost dangerous -- as a hunter coming down from the adrenaline of a kill. He shuffles up Sam, perching lightly, and brings Sam’s chin up, shoves his tongue in and makes him taste himself, potent and raw and all over. Sam's never really enjoyed letting his partner take the reins so much, but this is alright. Jack’s turning out to be a first for a lot of things. (First partner. First enemy-turned-friend. First executioner.)

 

Jack’s making more of those noises in the back of his throat, and as soon as Sam recovers enough, he sits up enough to reach for the clasps of Jack’s terrible jock strap.

 

He finds his wrist held in a loose grip, lazy satisfaction pooling in Raiden’s eye. “Nah. Nothing there but metal.”

 

Sam’s not one to be embarrassed, but he does feel a surge of pity. “You mean that weirdo doctor never…?”

 

The glow is smothered by indignation. “What? You think he’d give me a dick?” He snorts. “He wouldn't even give me a fucking self-repair module.” His sentence trails off, but Sam is sure he heard something like _non-essential my ass._

 

Sam nods gravely. “I am sorry for your loss.”

 

He snorts. “I don't think I lost just now.” He smiles, lazily, teeth peeking out at the corners. A jet-black tongue laps up the blood on his clawed nails. Sam’s blood.

 

A slow warmth runs through his body, and he laughs. “I suppose not, pretty boy.”

 

They maintain languid eye contact before Raiden stands up, stretches. The line of his body is so long. “Well,” he hums, “We better get outta here. Gotta cobble a report together.” He stands by the door, pauses until Sam is on his feet. “Though, you may wanna find something to help you… cover up.”

 

He walks out. Absolute bastard.

 

\--

 

“You left me naked with a _bullet wound_ in my arm, Jack. A bullet wound!”

 

This is his entrance statement as he walks into the hotel room. Two beds, a couch, a bathtub; quite a nice place. Time for Sam to bleed all over it.

 

He ambles into the bathroom, dumps his armour to the floor, and starts rummaging through their bags. “You're lucky I still have those shitty nanos!” It was handy at the time, but the skin has healed over the entry wound, so he's gonna have to cut into himself to remove the bullet. Ah, how sex clouds the mind.

 

The bullets the gun was shooting were small. It's a bit annoying -- it means Sam may have to dig around in his own musculature to locate it. “Raiden,” he calls, leaning towards the doorway. He takes out a small knife, a pack of industrial-grade wound-closers, and the big bottle of rubbing alcohol. “Raiden?”

 

Silence. His hickies hurt. Sam leaves the instruments on the counter and peeks his head around the corner. Jack is sitting on the floor next to the couch (good riddance) and ignoring him.

 

“Earth to Raiden!” Sam walks over and crouches to be eye level before waving a hand in front of his eye. Jack glares at him. “I need a bio-scan.”

 

A moment passes and Jack nods. The visor clinks shut in front of his face, and he stares at him, until he shrugs. “It's plugging up a blood vessel. Better to leave it.”

 

Sam plops to the ground, crossing his legs. The PMC-branded bloodstained jacket tied around his waist would preserve a fraction of his modesty, if he cared about such things. “Eh. Some more metal hardly makes a difference. Can't make it through airport security anyway.” He leans back on his hands, glances sideways at Jack, searching. He's looking off vacantly, turns his head the other way when he registers Sam’s gaze. Sam frowns. “What?”

 

The muscles in Jack’s face twitch. “Nothing.”

 

And, oh, Sam knows that rasp. Frustration pricks at the edges of his chest. “What, Jack? We gonna pretend you didn't eat me out? That you didn't fuck me with your fingers? Didn't love it?”

 

Jack leaps to his feet, posture dangerous. “Fuck off, Sam,” he growls, stalking towards the exit.

 

Sam drags his hand down his face, sighs aggressively. He stands up, leans against the couch. “What the fuck, Jack.” He’s raising his voice and he knows it’s going to end ugly but he’s _tired_ and he can't believe he expected Jack to be anything other than _this_ for one single moment of his life. “Are you pissy because you couldn't get off? Is that what this is?”

 

Clawed fingers dig into the plaster of the hotel wall. It cracks around him. (And just like that, he finds another way to add an extra expense.) “Can you just fuck off for once? Just once?”

 

That makes him laugh. It's loud and ugly. “Where do you want me to go, _menino bonito_? This is our fucking hotel room, and you're in the exit.” He regrets adding that last part, because he doesn't want Jack to go -- no, he wants him to stay right the fuck where he is.

 

Jack whips around, single eye blazing with anger, lip raised. “Why do you have to make everything so _difficult?”_

 

Sam cackles, leaning forward with his hands on his hips. It's funny, getting cussed out for no discernible reason. “Some might say that's the _pot_ calling the _kettle black_. What the hell did I do this time?”

 

He figures there’d be a fist-shaped dent in the wall right about now if Jack wasn’t rushing towards him. Sam puts his arms up defensively, but Jack anticipates it, and immediately grabs his forearms. He struggles, but Jack just tightens his grip. Twisting, Sam aims a knee at his side, but he’s shoved backwards just as his balance shifts onto one foot -- he falls. His stomach tenses, he braces himself, but the air is pushed out of his lungs when he lands on a soft, high surface. One of the beds.

 

Jack’s on him. The tension suffocates, thick as fog, as he laves his tongue over the myriad angry-looking welts on Sam’s neck. The contact is sharp and spiking. Sam makes a noise of surprise before yanking his knees back and kicking Jack off, hard.

 

He falls to a pile on the ground. Sam sits up, the force of his indignant fury bringing him to a stand. “What the _hell,_ Jack!”

 

Fighting and fucking straddle a thin line to them, and it always has; it’s different when it can be likened more to an assault than proper fisticuffs. Sam’s about to yell some more when Jack makes a pathetic noise.

 

“I don't _understand_ , Sam,” he says, forcefully, voice strained uncharacteristically. It drives a spike of worry through the red mist in Sam’s head.

 

“Understand what?”

 

“You. This.” He’s kneeling, now, legs thrown sideways and head bowed. “Why it’s… like this.”

 

Sam perches on the bed. “Care to explain?”

 

“This!” Jack makes a frustrated snarl, brings his eyes up to glare meaningfully. “How can this be so-” clenches his hands in front of him, “-so…”

 

The fight drains out of his frame all at once. He looks pathetic, slumped on the floor at Sam’s feet, and fuck him if he doesn't feel a pull of concern.

 

Sam slides to the ground, crosses his arms. He’ll listen, but that's all.

 

They sit in silence for a bit, Jack still while Sam stares. When words finally grace the air, they're quiet. “It's not like this with Rose,” he says, and Sam resists the urge to groan. He's had, quite frankly, _enough_ of Rose for the time being, and would like very much to go soak his tired filthy scratched up body in a hot bath right about now.

 

Instead, he keeps sitting.

 

“She doesn't… I don't have the equipment. For sex.” Unnecessary to add. “It's not like we don't _try_ , I just-- I just,” he pushes a hand up his face and into his hair (it’s missing its claws), “ _can’t_.” He looks up, a swimming kind of desperation in his eye. “I haven't done anything like that with _anyone_ for maybe five years.”

 

Colour Sam surprised. “Pretty good at it.”

 

He blinks, slow. “Thanks.” His voice isn't entirely sincere. He continues. “Anyway, it's just… different. With you.” Something charges his gaze, infects the air. “You _get_ me.”

 

After a moment, Jack starts crawling forward, slowly, purposefully, giving Sam ample time to back off. As much as he feels he should, something tugs at his gut, weighs in his stomach. So he lets Jack approach, and lets Jack stroke his neck reverently, and lets Jack kiss him.

 

The folds of Jack’s tongue are slow and wet and flat. He presses lightly, almost tenderly, and it's too easy to lean into it, to mirror a gentle care that leaves Sam feeling unsteady. He lets his hands wander up, and they slide against the hard curve of Jack’s jaw, bracing him as he tilts his head and pushes in deep. One of Jack’s hands fly up to hold his wrist as he moans.

 

A feeling of _wrongness_ batters its way out from under the cloying sweetness, and Sam breaks the kiss. Jack stares at him owlishly, eye lidded, before pressing a palm against Sam’s chest. He traces the edges of his torn bodysuit, brushes his fingers against the smears of blood. Sam leans away.

 

Jack looks vulnerable. It’s still foreign, startling, a far cry from everything Sam knows him as, so he can’t help himself. He slides a hand back up the side of his face and Jack turns his head into it, keeping eye contact all the same. It’s a suspended moment, a bubble of peace; something burning into the back of Sam’s mind like a brand.

 

The tension is broken by Jack surging forward. He takes Sam’s lips, hard and bruising, drags a hand across his chest. Despite himself, Sam responds, gripping the back of Jack’s neck and holding him close. It’s abrupt, but enjoyable, frantically inhaling Jack’s soft gasps; enacting his desires at the cost of his thoughts, aware that he’ll have to come back to them shortly.

 

He sees the signs all at once, like a train crash -- all at once, he’s aware of the desperation in Jack’s movements, the jerkiness to his actions. The upturn of his visible eyebrow takes on a different connotation when he sees the flicker of stress behind his eye, as does the clench of his fingers. Sam pulls away but Jack follows, hands snapping to his waist just as his teeth snap at his throat.

 

“Jack--” He’s scratching up and down his sides, but it’s not intoxicating, it just stings. “Jack.” He pushes synthetic hips flat against flesh ones. “ _Raiden!”_

 

He freezes. His breath is hot against the hollow of Sam’s throat. They hold that pose for a few moments.

 

“Jack,” he says, once more, quietly.

 

His eye is flat, all traces of openness scattered to the wind. He stares, unblinking. When he speaks, his voice is hard. “So you don’t want this,” he says, final but probing.

 

Sam sighs. “I never said that.” A pause stretches between them. He slides his hand up a metal arm, slowly. “What are we doing, Jack?”

 

He finds his wrist held in an iron grip, and so much steel in Jack’s face. “Nothing.”

 

And with that, he’s on his feet. Sam counts _one Mississippi two Mississippi_ and Jack is out the door.

 

He lays back on the bed, exhausted for so many different reasons. As he lets the dots of the plaster ceiling leave little specks in his vision, he lets his thoughts catch up to him.

 

Jack never asked Rose.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Author's Note:**

> rating may possibly maybe go up. this one's for the lovely people who commented on my other samuraidens: i love you, and i hope you know this.


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